by Chris Dolley
He expanded the search into the web and beyond. Hundreds of hits. He sifted through them, page after page of junk.
He returned to the news and documentary channels, replaced 'organised crime' with 'right-wing' and added 'campaign' and 'backers.' This time he found several hits, including a documentary from two months ago entitled 'John Bruce: where the money really comes from.' He clicked on it.
An excited reporter spent the next forty minutes trying to tie John Bruce to a right-wing plot to put Christianity at the heart of a future education system, replacing the three Rs with the three Cs—Christianity, Creationism and Chastity. It was trial by association. Yes, John Bruce received donations and occasionally shared platforms with members of the evangelical right but there was nothing to show he endorsed their ideals.
Not that facts featured very highly in the documentary's agenda. It was a typical pre-election hatchet job. Bruce was a committed Christian and a Republican, so trot out every right-wing scare story and attempt to trace a link to John, however tenuous or fanciful.
If anything John Bruce came across as politically naïve, someone in desperate need of campaign funds who was trying hard to please everyone he met.
Nick voiced in a new search. Extreme right and terror campaigns. Was there a history of framing people for murder?
Back came the matches. Bombings, shootings, stabbings. From the sample he saw, the extreme right favoured the direct approach—denounce, intimidate, beat up and kill. Surely if he'd been a target they'd have confronted him directly—firebombed his house, lobbied the college for his dismissal, attacked him in the street. Framing someone for murder was not their style.
Not that that ruled out a twisted fellow traveller. The ubiquitous loner with a warped imagination and a desire to see John Bruce as President.
He stabbed a finger at the news button. Time to check the news from Oxford. A series of headlines flashed over the viewing platform. The murder had been relegated to ninth in the list of headline news. But it was something else that caught his eye. The story in second place.
Republican candidate endorses pre-emptive strike v China.
He clicked on the story. A picture of John Bruce appeared. It was night. He was getting out of a car, pausing to smile at the cameras and wave to well-wishers.
The voice of a female news anchor spoke over the action. "This was republican candidate, John Bruce, last night on his way back to his hotel in Manchester, New Hampshire."
A throng of reporters pushed forward and surrounded Bruce as he tried to walk across the pavement between his car and the hotel steps. They fired questions at him and thrust microphones in his face. John, are you confident of winning New Hampshire? Will you drop out if you don't come in the first three? Bruce smiled and kept pushing through the crowd. The questions continued, Bruce answering with a nod or a shake of his head. Then came the question. What's your policy on China? Do you think a pre-emptive nuclear strike against them would be a good thing? Bruce paused and the holocamera zoomed in on his face. Nick couldn't believe it. He was actually thinking about the question. More microphones lurched forward, all other questions forgotten. What was the man going to say?
"It's an option," said John Bruce.
The pavement erupted. Every reporter talking at once, shouting questions, asking for clarification, turning wide-eyed to camera and asking their producers, 'did you get that?'
And at the back, pushing wildly towards their candidate was an apoplectic campaign staff.
Nick called Louise through. What had Bruce been thinking? Reporters doorstep politicians all the time. It was part of their job. Something that Bruce would have been aware of. He'd been through the NASA publicity machine and, surely, his campaign team would have coached him even harder. All he had to do was smile and wave, and ignore any question he didn't want to answer. Had he misheard the question?
Not according to the media. The Bruce camp had been given several opportunities to clarify their candidate's position on China and although they initially issued a statement saying he'd misheard the question, that was withdrawn an hour later. Then the media feeding frenzy really began as prominent Bruce supporters and campaigners were tracked down and asked for a reaction. Most kept quiet, some expressed surprise, some denied he'd even said it, but a few backed his stance calling it brave and clear-sighted.
Nick flicked through the American news channels. Very little else was being discussed. Condemnation was coming in from all sides of the political spectrum, most pundits agreeing that Bruce's campaign was over.
"He was never a credible candidate," said one, "He's never run for office before and tonight it showed."
A few tried to find excuses for Bruce. He was confused, misheard the question or was answering an earlier one. Some even blamed the journalists.
"The only purpose of a question like that is to entrap the candidate. We, at home, heard the question because it was spoken into a microphone but would John Bruce? With all those reporters screaming in his ear? The whole thing was staged."
Only one pundit supported Bruce. A gnarled conservative on Fox's late-night election campaign round up.
"John Bruce only said what millions of Americans have been thinking for years. We've had six decades of being the sole superpower and wasted the last two trying to make the rest of the world like us. Well, wake up America! It didn't work. Now our forces are underfunded, our weapons research virtually non-existent, and we're sinking into a new Cold War. Except this time it's not America that has the technological and economic edge. It's the Chinese.
"Our country has never been so vulnerable. Even if we started today, rebuilding our military strength is going to take years and, in the meantime, any candidate who doesn't consider a limited pre-emptive strike an option isn't fit to run for office."
"That's not John," said Louise, staring at the holographic scene of John Bruce outside the hotel. "He'd never condone a nuclear pre-emptive strike against anyone."
"People change," said Nick, lying on his bed reading something he'd downloaded into his handheld.
"Not that much," said Louise.
She continued surfing the library of John's post-SHIFT appearances as she'd done for most of the afternoon. Every now and then she froze an image, zoomed in on his face, walked up to it and stared at every detail. He was different. There was a zealous naivety that the old John—her John—had never had. She could see it in his eyes. That child-like look of wonder as though every experience was new. The certainty in his voice whenever he talked about God and his great vision for the future. He just looked . . . wrong.
"He's been born again," explained Nick. "That's what happens."
"It's more than that," insisted Louise, unable to take her eyes off that image hovering before her. "I haven't seen him laugh. Not really laugh. He smiles a lot and grins but . . . doesn't he look vacuous to you?"
She turned to quiz Nick. Surely he had to see it too.
He didn't.
"Maybe that's the persona his image makers told him to project," he said. "Honest country boy with a big smile and a firm handshake."
Louise glared at him. Was he playing devil's advocate or did he really believe what he was saying? And what was he reading? What could be more important than understanding what had happened to John? She turned back to the smiling face of the presidential candidate. That wasn't a persona being projected. That was real. You could see it in his eyes. There was no calculation behind them anymore.
"The John I knew had a quick wit and was always telling jokes. This one just smiles a lot and talks about a better tomorrow."
"You don't get elected playing stand-up."
"But look at his eyes! There's no playfulness there. No mischief. He looks like he's on tranquillisers. He looks . . ."
She stopped and stared at Nick. "You said he might have lost a part of his personality during the SHIFT flight. Could he have lost the part that reasons?"
Nick scratched his chin. "It doesn't quite work like that . . ."
> "Isn't there a reasoning part of the brain—some place that filters thoughts and ideas? Like whether to answer 'yes' to a journalist asking about nuking China?"
"Not exactly . . ."
Louise wasn't listening. She could see exactly what had happened to John. He'd lost the reasoning part of his brain during the SHIFT flight, leaving him open to religion and politics and the unscrupulous manipulation of others intent on using his name to forward their own political ambitions. John was nothing but a pawn in their hands.
Nick disagreed. "Look," he said, putting his handheld down. "If he were a pawn, the campaign team would have had him back on those hotel steps within minutes explaining how he misheard the question. The fact they didn't tells me that not only does he believe what he said but his handlers can't persuade him to back down."
"But that's not John!" She felt like she was banging her head against a brick wall. Nick didn't know the real John; the media didn't know the real John. But she did!
"Could he have been split in two?" she asked. "Could the good bit have gone into Pendennis and left the bad bit behind."
"Next you'll be saying that Mr. Hyde is standing for the President of the United States."
"Well, is he?"
Nick sat up. "No. Mr. Hyde is a Victorian concept. We're not composed of two selves—one good, one evil—locked in a fight for dominion over our soul. We're far more complex than that."
"But you said part of his personality could have been ripped from his brain during the SHIFT flight . . ."
"And it could. But it wouldn't be entirely good or entirely evil. It would be part of a sub-personality. Maybe an entire sub-personality."
Louise was confused. Personalities, sub-personalities, personas. Weren't they all describing the same thing?
"So he lost the sub-personality that controls reason?" she asked.
Nick took a deep breath. "I see I'm going to have to explain this." He shuffled closer to the edge of the bed and rested both hands on his knees. "Think back to your childhood. I bet you were a different girl with your friends than you were with your parents."
Louise nodded.
"That's because you, like most children, learned to adopt different personae according to where you were and who you were interacting with. Now, as you get older these sub-personalities change. Some fade away, others appear. You flit between roles: mother, wife, lover, friend, child, colleague, boss and however many other personae your lifestyle demands. Now, John spent most of his adult life in the forces. Maybe, and I'm using retrospective psychoanalysis here, maybe that led to him developing a sub-personality to cope with a highly structured, disciplined regime. Moving to NASA and the SHIFT program would have accentuated that. The same discipline but this time extended into his off-duty hours. He'd be a twenty-four hour ambassador. For NASA, for SHIFT, for his country. The first man chosen to fly to the stars couldn't be seen behaving badly.
"So, over the years John's work persona assumes the dominant role in his life. But what happens if that persona—the highly disciplined, professional John Bruce that made up say 75% of his life—is suddenly ripped away. He wouldn't turn evil but his other sub-personalities would suddenly be forced to cope with the unexpected exposure. And how would they react? Wouldn't they feel freed? Maybe even reborn. All that rigid discipline and constraint suddenly removed. Which could explain the new John. He's lost the rational straitjacket and become reacquainted with the child, the friend and all the other sub-personalities that he'd been repressing all these years. Which is why when someone asks if it's a good idea to nuke China he'll answer off the cuff. Well, yeah, it's gotta be an option."
"So I was right," said Louise. "He's lost his reasoning sub-personality."
"No, he's still reasoning but employing a different set of priorities. His 'work' personality would place a high priority on behaving well at all times. His 'friend' personality would care more about being popular. They'd both employ reason but with different goals."
"But isn't that dangerous?"
"Only if he gets elected which he won't. You heard the news. His campaign's finished."
"But what about John? Shouldn't someone tell him he needs therapy or something?"
Nick smiled. "And be accused of orchestrating another dirty tricks campaign? How many more murders do you want me accused of?"
Chapter Thirteen
Karen clapped her hands together, even with her thick mittens the cold penetrated. There'd be a frost tonight. A heavy one.
She checked the lane again before entering Louise's yard. No parked cars, no strange men lurking. Thank God. She'd had the chain on her door since this morning. What had Louise gotten herself into this time?
The yard crunched under foot. Ice was beginning to form in the ruts. Would Jasper's water be frozen too? She looked over towards the farmhouse. Maybe she should fetch a bucket of warm water? That would at least give Jasper a few hours before his water iced over again. And save her from having to hook out fragments of ice with her bare hands.
She trudged back to the farmhouse, dug Louise's spare key out of a deep coat pocket and opened the door. The house felt cold—only marginally warmer than outside. Louise on another economy drive, no doubt. Karen wondered if that was why she'd had to leave. Money problems. Maybe even threats from some dubious loan shark.
She stood looking out the kitchen window while the bucket filled. Looking at the field gate and wondering where Jasper was. The donkey knew his meal times off by heart. It was unlike him not to be waiting by the gate.
The bucket filled, she hoisted it out of the sink and carried it carefully through the house and into the yard. Still no sign of Jasper. She peered along the hedge line. It was so unlike him to be away from the gate. Especially in winter. There was no grazing anywhere in the field. Could he be in his shelter?
She called his name. Nothing. Normally he'd bray and come galloping over. Was he asleep?
She unlatched the field gate and poured the warm water into his bucket. And then called again. Still nothing. Nothing moving or making a noise for miles around. It was one of those cold, still winter evenings with patches of mist filling hollows in the landscape—like at the bottom of Jasper's field where the pasture sloped away. Could he be down there?
She checked the shelter first—fresh droppings but no Jasper. She was confused. He couldn't have escaped. The gate was still fastened and the field well-fenced. She stared at the misty hollow at the field bottom. He had to be down there.
Was he hurt?
She started to run, her feet jarring on the uneven frozen ground. Please don't let him be hurt! Not Jasper.
The ground fell away, she descended into the mist, calling, peering through the fog. Was that him over there? That dark shape in the corner?
She veered towards it, stumbling, her arms flailing as she tried to run and keep her balance at the same time.
A shape formed out of the mist. Jasper; backed up against the hedge, hunched down, ears back, shaking. He looked terrified. She slid to a stop.
"Jasper, what's the matter, boy?"
She crept forward, her right hand extended. "It's all right, boy. It's only me. Smell my hand."
Something moved on the periphery of her vision, the mist in motion as the slightest breeze rippled through the hollow. Karen shivered. She felt a sudden icy touch against her skin—on her left side just below her rib cage. One of her many layers of clothing must have untucked itself in her dash across the field. She stopped to rearrange herself.
The icy touch moved, slithering across her back. She flapped at it, bending her arms behind her back, swivelling on the spot. Panic. Had something slipped down her neck? Ice? A snake? And then she was moving—upwards, lifted off her feet by something she couldn't see, rising ten, twelve feet in the air, hovering for an instant and then . . .
. . .slamming hard against an invisible barrier, like a wall of glass in the sky.
Disbelief mingled with pain. She swished through the mist, a dozen feet off the
ground, slamming into that invisible wall in the sky. Once, twice . . . too many times.
Far too many times.
A rag doll tugged in a direction it just couldn't go.
Louise stared at the image on the holovision. Her farm, her yard . . .
"It might not be her," said Nick softly.
Louise barely registered his presence. All she could see was her home and boundless despair. What had she done? It had to be Karen. Poor innocent Karen.
The picture changed. An overhead shot from a circling camera drone. The farmhouse at the centre, the yard full of emergency vehicles, Jasper watching them from the gate. The camera zoomed in on a stretcher being carried from the field.
"This was taken earlier today," said a sombre news anchor.
Louise clutched Nick's arm as she watched the stretcher balloon in size. The person's face was covered but . . . that coat. It was Karen's. She'd seen her wearing it a thousand times.
"Police have named the victim as Louise Callander, a thirty-one year-old charity worker . . ."
No, no, no, no, no! She felt like screaming. "Why do they keep saying that?" she cried "Why?"
"Because it's your farm and . . . maybe she didn't have any identification on her."
"But we don't look anything like each other! And the police saw me only two nights ago."
Nick looked away.
"What?" she asked. "Why are you looking like that?"
He took a deep breath, started to say something then changed his mind.
"What? What are you not telling me?" She punched him hard in the arm. "Tell me!"
He took another deep breath and touched her hand.
"Maybe they're having trouble making an identification."
Louise thought she was sinking through the floor. "No!" Not that. Not Karen. Not anyone. She was on her feet, wanting to run but not knowing where to. She stumbled over a box, turned and kicked it. And kicked it again. Stupid, stupid boxes all over the floor. Nick grabbed her, she pulled away. This was not happening. This was definitely not happening.
Maybe it hadn't happened? She'd phone and Karen would answer. They'd laugh about it later. A silly mistake. That's all it had been.
